My father survived the Holocaust. That molded my worldview

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"CHILDREN OF Holocaust survivors," a friend once said to me, "always know where their passport is."

I don't know whether that statement is categorically true, but I took it to be shorthand for a broader point: Jews raised by parents who lived through the Nazi genocide never take their safety entirely for granted. If they are blessed to live in a free and tolerant country like the United States, they might be confident that "it can never happen here" — but that confidence doesn't amount to absolute certainty. At some level, their parents' experience in Nazi Europe will have shaped their deepest beliefs about their own society and their place in it.

Today marks the 75th anniversary of the liberation of the Auschwitz death camp, and the occasion has spurred a great deal of coverage about that place of pure evil, and the larger Holocaust of which it was just a fraction. I have a column on the subject in today's Boston Globe, which I hope you will read, but I wanted to write here on a theme I have never directly addressed before: How has my perspective been formed by my identity as a survivor's son?

I can barely remember a time when I didn't know that my father's family was wiped out by the Nazis. How I first came to learn what had befallen them, I don't know. I'm sure it wasn't from my father, since it wasn't something he spoke about when I was very young. Yet I clearly recall looking at books with photographs from the Nazi era and understanding that they were connected to my own family history. I have a vivid memory of writing "Hitler" on the bottom of my shoe in school when I was 7 or 8 years old, in order to scuff out his name as I walked.

So awareness of the Holocaust has been a constant in my life. On a number of occasions over the years I have written and spoken about my father's experience. It would be strange indeed if it hadn't influenced my worldview and political opinions. But until now I've never tried to summarize that influence in words. Here is a first attempt.

Growing up with a father who was a Holocaust survivor — and living in a community that was home to many other survivors — taught me to be deeply wary of a too-powerful government. My strong libertarian, small-government streak is rooted in the knowledge that the immense horror and evil of the Holocaust were engineered by a totalitarian government with unchecked power. I couldn't disagree more strongly with the serene view that "government is simply the name we give to the things we choose to do together." The stronger the government, the more likely it is to disregard what citizens "choose to do," and to force them instead to bow to the will of the rulers. Power tends to corrupt, Lord Acton wrote. The Holocaust shows how black and pitiless the corruption of a powerful state can become. Some government is necessary. Too much is lethal.

There is an intoxicating derangement in massive crowds that always creeps me out.

Also lethal, in my view, is the glorification of politicians . The newsreel footage of Adolf Hitler addressing those massive, adoring, "Sieg Heil"-ing rallies left me with an indelible revulsion for mass rallies generally, and the adoration of political figures in particular. Before the Nazis came to power, most people would have thought it inconceivable that sober, civilized, educated Germans could turn en masse to a hate-spewing demagogue, but turn they did and in staggering numbers. There is an intoxicating derangement in crowds that creeps me out. I have never been able to see images of mass rallies — even rallies for causes I admire, like the anti-China resistance in Hong Kong, or for causes of no real importance, like the vast Duck Boat throngs when a sports team wins a championship — without a sense of foreboding. I shudder when I see citizens flock together by the tens of thousands, screaming themselves hoarse in support of a politician.

Closely related to that sentiment is my conviction that decency is the most important criterion in a political leader. Of course I want public officials who have sound views on the economy and foreign policy, on national defense and criminal justice. But above and beyond that, I want public officials who are reasonably honest and moral. The Third Reich stands as the ultimate example of what can happen when individuals of evil character come to power. Nothing in America's experience, thank God, has ever approached Hitler's degree of malignance. But politics in this country is increasingly marked by a blithe disregard, even disdain, for good character. During Bill Clinton's presidency, liberals and Democrats were willing to excuse odious and shameless behavior because the president supported policies they liked. The depravity of the Clinton years is now being exceeded under Donald Trump: Countless conservatives and Republicans have decided that character is irrelevant as long as the economy stays strong and judges they like are appointed to the bench.

My father's family was annihilated by a regime that was obsessed with race. Nazi Germany regarded "Aryans" as the highest and purest race and Jews as the lowest and dirtiest. From that mindset came racial purity laws and concentration camps and the extermination of two-thirds of Europe's Jews. As the child of a Holocaust survivor, I believe that racial categories are fundamentally illegitimate . I hate the labeling and sorting of Americans by race. I've always thought the only right approach to racial issues is the one put into words by Justice John Harlan, the lone dissenter in Plessy v. Ferguson: "Our Constitution is colorblind, and neither knows nor tolerates classes among citizens." As a matter of biology, racial distinctions are irrelevant — indeed, nonexistent. They're a social construct, not a genetic reality. They contribute no more to "diversity" than right- and left-handedness do. I find it heartbreaking that, 50 years after the civil rights movement, America's most powerful institutions — media, academia, business — are becoming more race-obsessed than ever.

My lifelong hatred for what the Nazis did to Germany and Europe helps explain my instinctive resistance to political movements that seek to compel radical social transformations . There may be good arguments in favor of coercing society to abandon fossil fuels, or to eliminate religion from the public square, or to accept the existence of more than two genders. But it alarms me when those with power force such sweeping changes on the public, using intimidation, sanctions, and government power — not persuasion — to get their way. I tend to think that most social change should come gradually and organically. Cultural or political ideologues who resort instead to bullying make me flash back to the ideologues who caused such devastation in the 1930s and '40s.

Finally, growing up as the son of a Holocaust survivor has made it impossible for me not to know that human goodness is fragile . It takes training and practice. The temptation to do evil to others, or to look the other way when evil is being done, can be powerful. Civility and civilization are only thin veneers, stretched like a bandage over a bleeding wound. It is scary how easily that bandage can be pulled off, exposing the gore underneath. It happened in the middle of Europe in the middle of the 20th century, and the consequences were diabolical. Those consequences, for better or for worse, have haunted and molded me all my life.

Oakland, Calif., last week became the first city in California to make it illegal for landlords to run criminal background checks on prospective tenants. On Tuesday, city councilors voted to bar property owners from turning away would-be renters because they have a criminal offense — or multiple criminal offenses — on their record.

The vote was unanimous. The measure was reportedly backed by Representative Barbara Lee, the congresswoman from Oakland. "It's past time we put an end to the open discrimination against people with criminal records," she was quoted as saying. Come again? Even for the Bay Area, that seems a little crazy. But there is now an active movement promoting the idea that just as landlords cannot turn potential tenants down because of their race or religion, they should not be allowed to do so because they were in prison.

The Oakland ordinance is more extreme than a "guidance " issued by the Department of Housing and Urban Development during the Obama administration. In April 2016, HUD let it be known that any landlord with a blanket policy of not renting to people with criminal convictions on their record would be deemed discrimination on the basis of race or national origin. The theory was that because blacks and Hispanics commit crimes and go to prison at much higher rates than whites, a policy of automatically rejecting applicants with a criminal past would have a "disparate impact" on different racial groups. Since not all convictions are alike, HUD argued, not everyone with a criminal record would be a risky tenant.

Certainly it is true that not all ex-cons are alike. As I wrote at the time, "it isn't hard to find examples of former convicts who long ago learned their lesson and went straight, yet find it difficult to secure housing because background checks always flag their old offenses." There is no reason officials shouldn't remind landlords of that fact, cautioning them not to paint with too broad a brush, and to remember that many former prisoners are now law-abiding and peaceable.

But like HUD under Obama, Oakland isn't content to counsel prudence. Instead it condemns any landlord that chooses not to rent to ex-cons as, in essence, a bigot. That's an outrageous accusation. And it's outrageously unfair to the people with the most to lose: landlords whose livelihood and savings are bound up in the apartments they rent out. Often those apartments are in buildings bought after years of hard work and frugal living — buildings the landlords take pride in maintaining and in keeping clean, comfortable, and attractive. Property owners have a far greater stake than Oakland city councilors do in screening tenants wisely and approving only residents who won't jeopardize their buildings' safety or appeal. Indeed, one councilor conceded that he supports the measure because his own son is in prison, and will benefit from the new ordinance upon his release.

Oakland has a high incarceration rate, and former prisoners, shunned by landlords, have sometimes struggled to find a place to live. That's a legitimate concern. But surely it is unjust to ride roughshod over the rights of people who have done nothing wrong in order to advance the interests of people who have.

Freedom of association is a fundamental human right. The vitality of our economic life depends on it. A landlord who rejects tenants with a criminal past may not always end up making the wisest choice. But why should anyone but the landlord be entitled to make that choice? Granted, a property owner with a standing rule against renting to former prisoners may miss out on some potentially wonderful tenants — tenants that another property owner, less inflexible or more savvy, is free to snap up. But that's none of the government's business. Absent evidence of illegal racial discrimination, the government has no excuse to interfere.

Besides, a no-criminal-record rule is not unreasonable. A potential tenant's criminal record often is a cause for concern. Recidivism rates in the United States are sky-high . Former lawbreakers are often future lawbreakers: More than 40% of offenders return to prison within three years of their release. Which suggest that a property owner with a no-convicts rule is not being irrational, only cautious. And caution shouldn't be illegal, even in the Bay Area.

Out of the blue one day in 2009, I received a call from Clayton Christensen, the legendary Harvard Business School professor and author of The Innovator's Dilemma, one of the most important, paradigm-shifting books on management ever written. He had been reading my columns, he said, and wanted to meet. Could I come over to Harvard to pay him a visit? I accepted with alacrity. I wasn't going to pass up the chance to sit and schmooze with someone described as not only "the most influential business thinker on Earth," but also " the nicest man ever to lecture at Harvard."

It was splendid to meet him, and our conversation was stimulating and illuminating. We talked about Harvard and about his famous theory on "disruptive innovation" — he gave me an impromptu tutorial, which he illustrated with sketches on a notepad as he spoke. He explained to me what he had discovered about the "job" of a McDonald's milkshake . He asked me about the Boston Globe and my experience of the changing newspaper business. But more than we talked shop, we talked about family and values, about his Mormon faith and my commitment to Judaism. Before I left, he told me not to hesitate to get in touch if I ever thought he could be helpful. A few weeks later, I was asked to be the master of ceremonies for a dinner at which he was to receive a "Distinguished Citizen Award."

"The brand that the Christensens are known for is kindness."

Last week, Clay Christensen died of leukemia. He was just 67, and it came as a shock to read of his death. I had known he was ill; I hadn't known it was fatal. The obituaries focused not just on his glittering resume, but on his integrity and passion for helping others. The Wall Street Journal recounted one occasion on which he convened a family meeting when one of his children was accused of shoving another child in school. That kind of behavior couldn't be tolerated, he told his child, not just because it was wrong, but because it went against the family's brand: "The brand that the Christensens are known for is kindness."

To prepare for that long-ago dinner at which I was the MC, I spent time reading some of Clay Christensen's writing. One was his essay "Why I Belong, and Why I Believe." It is an intensely religious piece of writing by a man whose faith — a faith profoundly different from my own — was at the core of his brilliant and accomplished life. It was one of the most inspiring and wonderful things I had ever read, and I said so at the dinner. I've just re-read the essay and found it, if anything, even more uplifting and affecting than I remembered. Click the link and take 10 minutes to read it for yourself. You won't regret doing so.